A round ofgoodbyes downstairs was followed by the closing of the front door. Mortonlooked at the alarm clock: nine fifty-five. There was just enough time tograb a bite to eat, take a shower and catch up with Juliette before she wentoff to work. He was curious to know how her first day had gone yesterday. He suspected either brilliantly or terribly. There was rarely a greymiddle-ground where Juliette was concerned. She’d been sound asleep bythe time he’d returned from the hospital last night; once he’d begun pouringout thirty-nine years of angst at his father, it was hard to stop. Itflowed out of him like an unstoppable reservoir of anguish, whose dam had beenunceremoniously ruptured. He’d quickly become oblivious to the nursingstaff, the outpouring continuing until he was entirely emotionallydrained. His reservoir was empty and he felt utter relief at having saideverything he’d ever wanted to say to his unconscious father. Then heleft the hospital.
Morton climbedout of bed, unable to ignore the coffee aroma any longer. Juliette was inthe kitchen in her work uniform, sipping a drink. ‘Morning,’ she saidcheerfully. ‘You were late at the hospital last night.’
‘I decided tomake use of the fact the old man couldn’t answer me back, so I told himeverything I’ve ever felt. Ever,’ he replied, pouring himself acoffee. ‘He obviously agreed with me because he didn’t argue back.’
Juliettesmiled. ‘How is he? How did the operation go?’
‘Fine, as wellas can be expected. He’ll be in ITU for a while then he’ll move to aregular ward,’ Morton said. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say thenext part, ‘and then home’, because that would mean he and Juliette would haveto face up to the reality of being homeless. It was funny, they’d notonce talked about getting a new place, they’d just replaced some clothes andmoved in to his father’s house, as if that was the most natural thing to do inthe world. It was like they were flying the nest but in reverse. Hechanged the subject. ‘How was your first day back at work?’
Juliette raisedher eyebrows in a ‘there’s a story’ kind of way. ‘Suspiciouslyfantastic,’ she said. ‘Usually the Chief doesn’t have much time for thePCSOs, but he was totally OTT with me, asking me how I was and actuallylistening to my answer, rather than nodding and wandering off in his own littleworld. Oh, and they split me and Dan, my usual partner up, and paired mewith straight-laced Roger who does everything exactly by the book. The bosses hate him, but they know he wouldn’t dare put a foot wrong.’
‘Unless youcorrupt him’ Morton said.
‘Believe me,straight-laced Roger is incorruptible.’
‘So nothing newwith the Coldrick Case then?’
‘Not that I’vebeen told, no, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I could hardly log onand start fishing on my first day back. Hopefully I’ll see someoneinvolved in the investigation later on. What have you got planned fortoday, then? Anymore illegal activities?’
‘Hopefullynot. I’m meeting Dr Baumgartner for the results.’
Juliette noddedbut Morton could tell she didn’t have the foggiest which results he was talkingabout.
The train from Hastings station took anhour and thirty-two minutes to reach Charing Cross. Morton had spent thejourney on his iPhone, re-examining photos and documents from the ColdrickCase, seeing if there was anything he had missed or overlooked. If DrBaumgartner had nothing with the DNA or copper box, he was well and trulystumped. No further leads to pursue. The outcome of the casedepended on this meeting. Morton marched purposefully alongNorthumberland Street, the gold lettering of the pub name coming intoview. As he approached the pub, he began to worry. What if DrBaumgartner had been mugged? Or had his hotel room ransacked? Orworse? The people working for the Windsor-Sackvilles had proven thatthey would stop at nothing to prevent him from discovering the truth. Heopened the door and glanced around. There was no sign of him. Morton looked at his watch: they were due to have met five minutes ago. Shouldhe be worried? It was only five minutes, after all.
The barmanlooked across at him. ‘Can I help you, mate?’
‘There haven’tbeen any messages left for Morton Farrier, have there?’
The barmanshook his head. ‘No, mate, sorry.’ Morton’s mind went intooverdrive, recreating all manner of possible fates that could have consumed hisformer university lecturer. How could he have been so stupid as todrag him into all this mess? It was bad enough that Jeremy andJuliette were involved. He looked at his watch again – another twominutes had passed. A month ago Morton wouldn’t have thought twice aboutordering the drinks, grabbing a table and waiting patiently. Now hisheart was racing faster than if he’d just sprinted to the pub. It wasridiculous, but this was what the Coldrick Case had done to him; reducedhim to a nervous wreck. He thought back over his previous jobs, scanningfor a single hint of danger among them. He came up with nothing more thana heated row with a parking attendant after over-running at Eastbourne Libraryby three minutes. Perilous indeed.
‘Morton!’ It was Dr Baumgartner, standing in the doorway looking completely unfazed,unmugged, and undead. ‘Not late am I?’ his chirpy voiced boomed acrossthe room as he extended his hand to Morton.
‘No, you’re notlate,’ Morton said with a wry smile, shaking the extended hand. ‘Beer?’
‘Oh yes, thatwould be smashing. Same as last time.’
Morton carriedtwo pints over to the table that Dr Baumgartner had chosen. Theyexchanged pleasantries about Dr Baumgartner’s hotel and Morton’s nowmarble-sized lump before Dr Baumgartner cut straight down to business. ‘Right, the DNA test,’ he said, with a gentle tug of his grey beard. ‘Itcame back this morning and the chances of your boy Finlay and oldWindsor-Sackville sharing a common ancestor within the last forty-thousandyears are somewhere in the region of a billion
